


taking the time now and then to ask how I am

by remis777



Category: Gallifrey (Big Finish Audio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/M, Gen, High School AU of Rassilon, because why the hell not, narvin and leela run the mile, narvin/leela fluff, this is definitely not a 3k-word complaint about high school fitness, what are you talking about
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25435438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remis777/pseuds/remis777
Summary: In which Narvin rails against having to run the mile. Leela has something to say about that.
Relationships: Leela & Narvin (Doctor Who), Leela (Doctor Who)/Narvin (Doctor Who)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 10





	taking the time now and then to ask how I am

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The High School AU of Rassilon](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22292131) by [clockworkouroboros](https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkouroboros/pseuds/clockworkouroboros). 



> Blame @clockworkouroboros for this.

Narvin hated running.

He _hated_ it, despised it, loathed it with every fibre of his being, despised its difficulty and its necessity and the disarray and distress it brought to light, loathed how it so flagrantly disrupted his usually composed and calm demeanour. He hated that it made him look weak and inferior, hated that it made him sweat and pant and hurt and suffer, and above all, he _hated_ that he was actually _trying_.

Once every semester, somewhere in the middle, late enough that he’d forget about it but early enough that it disrupted his sense of peace, came the dreaded, feared, _abomination_ of a Herculean, Sisyphean, and Promethean trial that everyone called the Fitness Evaluation. Come to think of it, Narvin wasn’t sure he actually knew the _official_ name that the overlords of Gallifrey High School gave it; in his own subconscious it was just known, tremblingly, as _The Mile_.

Oh, there was much more to it than that, of course; there were push-ups, and sit-ups, and crunches; they would measure your heart rate and your blood pressure and your height and weight and flexibility and bicep strength and body mass index and other things he couldn’t be arsed to remember, all in the name of “keeping track of the student’s fitness throughout the years”. Whatever that meant. Apparently, come senior year, they’d present each student with the records from each semester and declare ‘Look how fit you’ve become! You were just a pathetic overweight snivelling child before you came here, weren’t you, and look how strong and healthy our mandatory PE classes have made you now!’

Great big bloody buggering bollocks to that.

Those other things involved were easy, and Narvin managed to be _just_ decent at all of them. He could do crunches and sit-ups no sweat (there was always _a bit_ of sweat). He could force himself to do enough push-ups to exclude him from the “categorically unfit” category, his height and weight were not great but not horrible. He could get away with almost everything. Almost everything, but not _the mile_.

It was obscene, really. It wasn’t that Narvin _minded_ exercise, per se (though he certainly did not do it if he didn’t want to, which was most of the time) – he even occasionally enjoyed his PE classes, as the teachers were kind and respectable, and he could tolerate a few hours of exercise a week if it allowed him not to have to participate in a _sport_ , with a _team_. He would do almost anything but that.

The mile, though, that was pushing it.

The PE classes weren’t really all that bad, not least that it wasn’t always pure fitness or workout activities that they entailed. Occasionally they would play a sport like soccer or tennis or basketball, which he didn’t mind because he had no ensuing obligation to interact with the other players after his class was over. Once, memorably, they had even learned a bit of ballroom dancing, which, after having cursed and sworn at the heavens for a good few days, Narvin found to his surprise that he actually liked. He would drop down dead and be doubly damned before he’d reveal _that_ particular nugget of information to anyone in this postcode, though.

All this to say that Narvin didn’t hate _exercise_ , even though he didn’t like it; he didn’t hate _running_ , if he decided to to it on his own; he _hated_ when he _had_ to run and disgrace himself, in _public_ , next to _other people_ , because some president or school board somewhere decided it would just look fine and dandy on the high school brochure to have a required fitness evaluation every semester.

 _Well_ , he thought, _fuck that. Excusez le français._

As it stood – well, as it _ran_ , to be precise – he was living his worst nightmare. He was running the mile in the godforsaken, thrice-bedamned Fitness Evaluation, and he was huffing and puffing and sweating and coughing his lungs up, and he wasn’t even a quarter of the way done. The powers that be had long ago traced out a definitive mile route that wove around the campus, in the ups and downs of the residential streets surrounding the high school; out the front gate you would go, right and down and up again and right again and right again, in through the back gate, all the way across campus to the soccer field, cut through it diagonally, come around to form a right triangle and then you were blissfully, blessedly _finished._

 _He_ wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

And he was _trying_ , too, and hated it. He had been stuck running a mile once every week back in middle school, for a trimester every year, and every week he’d tried to get out of it; he’d be sick, his ankle would be hurt, he wouldn’t have slept well, he’d’ve been dehydrated, he’d’ve gotten a concussion from face-palming too hard, he would have objected to it on the grounds that it was forced labor and in violation of the Geneva Convention. A few times, when he’d been _actually_ sick, he’d managed to escape it, but most weeks he’d just be forced to run.

There were always certain groups that formed during a mile run, he’d noticed as he ran, desperately trying to distract himself from the pain. There were the Jocks, who paced themselves well and got ahead very quickly, usually finishing in under seven minutes; there were the Normals, who generally made a bit of an effort but not too much, and managed it in the seven-to-nine minute range; and, finally, there were the Laggers, a term he applied only factually and not pejoratively: these were those who either didn’t give a shit and walked, or those who were too unfit or couldn’t run too fast or had asthma or some such condition that prevented them from going too quickly. He’d started off as a Lagger, and, eventually, painstakingly, with a lot of effort (he’d carbo-loaded, he’d tried to pace himself by wearing a watch, he’d tried to run along with one of the friendly Jocks), he’d pulled himself up firmly into a Normal standing, and he’d managed to scrape a 7:30 mile, of which he was quite inordinately proud.

That had been in middle school, though.

Now, from lack of practice and lack of caring, god knew how slowly he was running it. Walking it. He was pretty much just walking now. His lungs ached, his lips were dry, he was parched and sweating buckets, and despite all of this indignity he was actually trying, because of a misplaced sense of duty or a desire for fitness or some other idealistic delusion like that. He took some small measure of comfort in the fact that it seemed a longer mile time here was more acceptable, as some of his classmates behind him were just content to walk. Even in a wholly different school, though, the vague outlines of the different running groups were still defined: there was the cross-country team and the athletes all the way up front, with that idiot arsehole jock Andred probably leading the pack with his idiot arsehole jock _entourage_. Romana was somewhere behind Narvin, walking at an (unsurprisingly) walking pace, probably pontificating, doing whatever morally righteous thing she usually did, or,(even worse, in Narvin’s opinion) _talking,_ with her _friends_. Braxiatel would be there, of course, carrying Romana’s train as per usual – he probably hadn’t even bothered to change out of his three-piece suit, the ponce – and Leela would probably be running up front alongside Andred, fawning over him doe-eyed. Andred likely wouldn’t even give her the time of day, enamoured as he was with sport and practice and perfection. Poor Leela.

That was new. _Pity_? For _Leela_? Narvin shook his head and swallowed painfully through his parched throat, glancing at his watch. Only two minutes had passed, and it felt like it had been at _least_ a hundred years. _Emotions._ It was all Brax’s fault, with his stupid, tutoring conspiracy, scheme, _make friends,_ plot …thing. Narvin had been perfectly content keeping his distance and expressing his disdain in private, but _no_ , Monsieur Wannabe Mustachio Braxiatel had just _had_ to poke his annoyingly proportioned nose into his business, and Narvin had had to take tutoring _Leela_ as a _fait accompli_. Braxiatel. The nerve of him. If Narvin were to tell him to go mind his own beeswax, he’d probably come to Narvin’s house and set up an apiary in his front yard, the twat.

Still, though, it wasn’t as if Narvin _hated_ the tutoring sessions. Not like he hated the mile. He was absolutely, completely, wholly _terrified_ of both Leela and his parents finding out, to be sure (he could admit that much to himself), but a small ( _very_ small, minuscule, tiny, minute) part of him _slightly_ enjoyed the thrill of the nocturnal outings, and, to his surprise, Leela could actually be quite a decent student when she set her mind to it. He liked it when she understood something after his explanations. It gave him a sense of superiority.

He looked around, and groaned. He’d barely even advanced thirty metres. Gritting his teeth, he bowed his head and focused on the ground, speeding up into a jog. He saw a few pairs of ankles as he passed them by, and was somewhat glad to know he’d finish before _those_ people, whoever they were. He tried to regulate his breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. In, out. In, out.

‘Are you dying, Narvin?’

Narvin nearly jumped out of his skin. He certainly jumped a good half foot in the air, and when he landed one of his feet caught on the other and he nearly fell face first onto the concrete. Leela steadied him with a hand on his elbow. Narvin, who thought he was already as red as his skin could manage, felt a blush rise up in his face. Leela smiled.

‘Do not worry, Narvin, I am not here to kill you.’

Narvin glared at her balefully as he caught his breath. He coughed, straightened, and protested, ‘Well, you nearly did. Did it not _occur_ to you to, I don’t know, let me _know_ of your presence before you- you _accosted_ me?’

Leela frowned. ’I do not know what you are talking about – there is no beach nearby, is there?’

Narvin shook his head. ‘Accos – no, never mind. You could have just tapped me on the shoulder or something,’ he said, starting to walk again alongside her.

‘Your reactions are always very amusing. I did not know that human skin could _be_ such a shade of red,’ she grinned.

Narvin reddened even further, and cursed softly under his breath. ‘What are you doing here, anyway? You’re a fast runner, I don’t see why you couldn’t just get it over with by now.’

‘It is alright, Narvin. I do not care for this “Fitness Eevallelation” that they wish to do. I have already run three miles today anyway.’

Narvin spluttered, his recently-returned breath forcefully expelled from him once again. The air molecules just wished he’d make his bloody mind up.

‘ _Three miles?!_ Three _miles_? Wh–’ he glanced down at his watch. ‘It’s eleven in the _morning_! When in the hell do you have the time to run _three miles_ –’ He took a breath. ‘ _Why_ would you _do_ that to yourself?’

Leela shrugged and broke into a jog. Narvin followed suit, curious to hear what she had to say.

‘It is fun,’ she said.

Narvin gaped wordlessly at her, then down at his sweat-soaked shirt, then back up at her again. He shook his head, and muttered softly, ‘Of all the savage things to do…’

Leela turned and raised her eyebrows at him. Damn her annoyingly perfect hearing.

‘I would not expect a _sitter_ like you to understand,’ she said mildly.

‘A _sitter_? Wow. I didn’t know I had a _job_ now! Who am I supposed to be babysitting, _you_?’

‘No one would ever give you such a job, Narvin. You care for nothing other than yourself, you see.’

‘Oh, I’m _sorry_ I have a sense of self-preservation,’ he retorted, speeding up to match Leela’s increasing pace. ‘ _Some_ of us have this thing called _common sense_.’

‘You would not know sense, common or otherwise, if it hit you on the head with a stick.’

‘Ah, see, _I_ would dodge it; _you_ would be the one _with_ the stick giving poor innocent people concussions.’

‘No abrasion to the head can be as bad as cowardice.’

‘Oh ho!’ Narvin chuckled, ‘ _abrasion_! Big words today! Did Braxiatel teach you that one, or Romana?’

‘Neither of them. I looked up the name of the thing that I had a strong urge to give _you._ ’

‘Well, you’re using it incorrectly. An abrasion is a scratch, not a wound to the head.’

‘Ohhh! Oh, of course!’ Leela exclaimed, magnanimously. ‘My _apologies_ , Narvin!’ She started to run a bit faster, and Narvin scrambled a bit, but kept up. ‘Let me use it correctly: I shall _scratch_ your eyes out!’ She smiled sweetly at him, looking straight into his eyes. ‘How does that sound? Did I use it _correctly_?’

Narvin gulped.

‘You should get a career in diplomacy.’

Leela raised an eyebrow, then shook her head. ’I do not like this _diplomacy_ everyone speaks of. Romana, and Braxiatel, they are always speaking about diplomacy, and _words_ , and other things to hide their true desires and thoughts behind.’

Narvin, who was just being sarcastic, was slightly taken aback. She did, he begrudgingly admitted to himself, have a point.

They kept running together in silence for a while, a silence which Narvin hesitated to call amiable, but was nonetheless; Leela looked around at the houses and the gardens they passed as she ran, so Narvin took the opportunity to observe her in her element. She was wearing a tank top that let her abs show, and shorts that barely came down to the middle of her thigh. A tiny voice in Narvin’s head started clamouring about dress codes. Although she’d barely broken a sweat, her cheeks were slightly red. She had a small smile on her face. Her hair, loose, was streaming in the wind, a waterfall of brown and tan and amber and bronze, almost shining in the midday sun. (Since when did he use _metaphors_ in his everyday thinking?) It was an objectively appealing image, which Narvin immediately filed away under “Things Never to Think About, Ever”, right alongside the image of her riled up in one of their arguments and that sensation he felt, so close to and yet so different from nausea, when their hands or legs accidentally brushed during one of their tutoring sessions. (He’d searched WebMD for those symptoms, to no avail. He still didn’t know what the problem was.) Oh, and that time that he’d been experimenting with transformers and inductors to produce a source of heat in the basement shop, and Theta had walked in on him and started telling everyone that Narvin had been building a personal oven to use at school, in stark contravention to appliance regulations. These were all filed in the same folder. Narvin had a torturous feeling that were he to let his guard down for a second, or were the tutoring sessions to continue in the same vein, the “Never” in the name of that particular category of his brain would change to “Always” perilously quickly.

Leela turned her head back towards him, and he quickly looked away, spending a few long moments innocently admiring the koi pond in someone’s garden, the willow tree in another’s, and enjoying the wind as it swept over his face. He chanced a glance back at Leela. She wasn’t looking in his direction anymore, but her smile seemed to have grown imperceptibly wider. He couldn’t fathom why she was here, running with _him_ , so he asked.

‘What _are_ you doing here, anyway? Why aren’t you up front with Andred?’

Leela scowled. ‘Andred is busy. He did not want me to _distract_ him, because he needed to “get this one right, Leela, I don’t want a bad record on my Fitness Evaluation, you know what it means to me,”’ she said, in an imitation of Andred’s tone of voice so similar that a laugh bubbled out of Narvin’s mouth entirely involuntarily.

‘Are you laughing at me, Narvin?’ Leela frowned.

Narvin, who never panicked, panicked.

‘Er, _no_! No, no! Not at all, no, I promise, Leela, I swear, I wasn’t – I’m not – It’s just you did Andred’s voice so well, and, er, well, you know I don’t like Andred that much, and, I- I _wasn’t_ laughing at you, I was laughing at _that_ , because your imitation was spot on, really, and I promise I don’t –’ He stopped, and narrowed his eyes. Leela was struggling to hold in her laughter.

‘That’s how it is, then, is it?’

Leela finally let go and laughed throatily, a wide smile lighting up her face. Narvin found for some weird reason he didn’t mind being the butt of the joke for once. As possible as it was while they were both running, Leela wiped a tear from her eye, still chuckling.

‘Oh, I am sorry, Narvin. You are too easy.’

‘Well, thank you for that. Just the boost of confidence I needed on this exact day,’ he said, speeding up a bit more. Leela grinned and matched pace.

‘How is school going for you, Narvin?’

Narvin frowned slightly, since Leela had never asked about him before, but he knew an olive branch when he saw one, so he took it.

‘It’s been alright, I suppose. How’s maths been for you?

‘I am surprised! It has been very good, I think. We talked about, uh, _circumscribed_ , triangles, yesterday, and since you taught me this word, I knew what the Professor was talking about!’

Narvin felt a bit of clandestine pride make its way into his emotions. He tried to ruthlessly squash it under his iron fist, but it just laughed and stayed where it was.

‘I like the word _circumscribed_ ,’ Leela continued, as they entered the school through the back gate, feet thumping rhythmically on the cement, breaths almost in unison. ‘It feels good in the mouth when it is spoken. There are some words that I learn that I do not like saying, like _quomodocunquize_ , because it does not feel right.’

 _Wonders never cease_ , Narvin thought. _Here I am learning words from Leela._ ‘What does that word mean?’

‘I think it is a word meaning “to make as much money as possible”. I do not like it.’

‘If you’re a fan of _circumscribed_ , I can introduce you to the word _circumambulate_ ,’ he proffered, as they jogged past the gym building.

Leela’s eyes widened. ‘That is a _good_ word! What does it mean? Is it to do with triangles too?’

Narvin chuckled, and shook his head. ‘No, no. It _does_ have something to do with circles, though, because of the first half of the word, _circ_. It means to “walk around”, or to “walk in a circle”. It’s what we’re doing to the school right now.’

Leela smiled. ‘That is a good word, Narvin, thank you. Though we are not walking in a circle.’

‘What do you mean?’

Leela’s smile widened into a devilish grin. ‘We are _running_ ,’ she said, and put on a burst of speed.

‘Hey, no, wait, hold on –’ Narvin puffed, scrambling after her. He barely managed to catch up, and he continued to run with her, looking her straight in the face. His feet felt the transition from cement to turf. She was still smiling. How dare she.

‘ _Why_ are you – do you _want_ me to get a coronary, Leela? Because I will, if you keep pushing me like this –’ Her smile got even wider. He huffed. ‘What’s the point of this exercise, anyway? Because you _know_ I’m not very fit, and you know that if you keep this up I’m not going to be able to continue – do you even want me to keep running with you? Because I’d be perfectly happy to stop right here and walk the rest of the way. Have I _done_ something? Is this some sort of twisted revenge for something I did that only you could dream up –’

‘Seven minutes and twenty seconds! Great job, guys,’ the PE teacher chirped as they passed her and the finish line by. ‘And _good job_ , Narvin! That’s probably your best time yet!’

Leela slowed to a stop. Her smile was infuriating. Narvin, for the first time, looked around, and saw that they were on the edges of the soccer field, other poor running souls making their way painfully towards the end. He stared at Leela, and his mouth opened and closed a few times, silently. Leela was smirking.

‘I – you –’ Seventy-seven different questions and protests and complaints descended on Narvin’s brain at once, and his knees buckled. He sat heavily on the side of the field, his back to the gate, and looked up accusingly at Leela.

‘Seven twenty is a _wonderful_ time, Narvin. I am proud of you,’ she said. She looked, to Narvin’s surprise, like she actually meant it. She bent down and placed a hand on his shoulder, which somehow felt like a small furnace had come to rest there. Narvin looked up into her face, framed by her hair that was falling forward almost tickling his nose, into her eyes. He breathed in deeply. Leela’s smile disappeared for a moment.

Then, suddenly, she grinned, and squeezed his shoulder. ‘I shall see you tonight, Narvin. Take care not to tire yourself out,’ she said, and turned, and walked away.

Narvin looked at her retreating figure, somewhat dazed. He’d forgotten that they had a tutoring session that evening, and he was mildly frightened to discover he was rather looking forward to it. A part of his brain was screaming _you’ve done it, you’ve finished the mile, now you don’t have to worry about it until the next semester_ , but as Leela turned back and smiled at him, and he smiled back, he came to a shocking realisation.

He didn’t have to worry at all.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a song lyric, from _Battle Cries_ , by The Amazing Devil.


End file.
